Dhampir of Kalika

৯.‌ vampires

They hunt when we sleep.

****

Life, to Shiroshini, felt like a bird without wings after the death of her daughter Kamala. She passed her days creating lakes of tears, fasting and mourning, wishing to die like her daughter. She had even thought of committing suicide a couple of times, but the cold touch of the dagger on her wrist made her cower. Perhaps sleeping pills would have been a better option.

She had not felt this distraught after losing her husband, the sole reason behind it being Kamala. She knew she had to live for Kamala and see her grow up. Kamala was a tender eight when Shiroshini's husband had died, and Shiroshini didn't want to lose to fate.

But now, when that reason was no more, she had to think about how to go on with life. It led to no success. Activities were a mere mechanical repeating of tasks backing the raw instinct of survival– wake up, bath, cook, eat and sleep. The chime of girly gaiety left an abyss behind in its eternal absence. A bereaved mother she was, unable to think that the creature of her womb got extinct before her own time had dried up. She sat on a mattress and stared at the window, watching people on the street continue their daily chores, as if nothing was sinister about Khatra. Her tangled locks were open and she wore a plain white saree, resembling Dhumavati.

Her eyes failed to discern the movement outside her window; she was lost in reenacting the scene of her daughter dancing. Did that talent of hers led her to death?

Shiroshini shivered. The devadasis didn't appear to be of good nature. In her eyes, those devadasis knew nothing but lechery and vice. Kamala was a lotus in the mud. Tears fogged Shiroshini's eyes. They fell on her tattered, dirty saree. For a moment she imagined she saw red stains on it. Maybe Kamala's blood, or maybe her own end had come and she was coughing and spitting out blood. But then it went away, and all she was left with were wet spots on her simple saree.

When there was a knock at the door, she didn't hear it. The second time, she thought she was dreaming. She convinced her heart to not think of Kamala's arrival back from the temple after her dance practice. She took a bunch of her tresses in her grip and wrung them like some soggy fabric. The pain that spurted diluted her hearing capability.

But the knock was only persistent. This time, Shiroshini knew she wasn't hallucinating. She got up and opened the door. It was a woman, and by the looks of it a very unusual one. Shiroshini had not seen anyone with an unlike pair of eyes– one blue and another brown. Her complexion was bright as bronze and glowing in daylight. Probably she hailed from a well-to-do family, and definitely from a town or a city. "Yes?"

The woman joined her hands in a namaskara. "Namaskar, I am a newcomer in the village."

Shiroshini had seen this woman somewhere, perhaps even heard a thing or two about this newcomer, words rolling around the tongues of the people, but she never paid much attention to gossip. "What do you need me for?"

"I have come to offer help." The woman craned her neck. "Won't you let me in?"

Shiroshini was embarrassed. She welcomed the lady. She had no place to offer her to sit, not even a khatia. "I am poor, as you can see. I am not good enough to entertain guests."

The woman smiled. "I have no problem sitting on the ground."

Shiroshini slowly sat across this woman, her eyes never leaving the human in front of her. This lady with sparkling eyes... Who was she? What motive did she have?

Immediately a jolt ran down Shiroshini's spine, a bizarre sensation that left her feeling frigidly numb. She pointed her quivering finger at the lady. "Did Manihar send you?"